Phoenix Rising
by Yiji
Summary: The day that Harry Potter saved the world was the same day that Draco Malfoy realised that he was in love with him.


The day that Harry Potter saved the world was the same day that Draco Malfoy realised that he was in love with him.

He'd never known, of course. He thought that Harry Potter was an insufferable twit at school, famous for something he didn't even deserve and not afraid to use his name to influence whomever he wished. He hadn't realised that they were so very alike. Perhaps he'd sensed it, deep down on a subconscious level, but that hadn't stopped him hating the other boy, or putting all his energy into hating him and his Blood Traitor friends.

When the War inevitably came, Draco Malfoy was on the Dark Lord's side. What else was a Malfoy expected to do? True, every skirmish made his legs quiver with fear, and in the private sanctum of his tent at night he always lost his evening meal against the bitter tang of bile mixed with self-loathing and despair. More than once he wished he died on the battlefields, because after the people he'd killed for a mad, power-hungry Lord, that was all he deserved. A painful, dishonourable death in a dusty field of blood.

It had been Harry Potter that had saved him from unavoidable death. The Death Eaters were beginning to tire of the long, drawn-out combats. Many of them, their minds warped and frenzied with bloodlust, even began to kill ones on their own side. Draco felt a sharp, stabbing fear when that day he discovered that even amongst the people he was supposed to call comrades, he would never be safe. During the battles, he aimed for Death Eaters only. After all this time, he felt that it was the least he could do to atone for his past sins.

He was hit in the chest with a misfired curse from another Death Eater, that much he knew. The bastards never bothered to aim anymore, anything on the ground that wasn't moving was considered a good thing for them. Things became a little foggy after that, but by the screams and noises around him, the battle was continuing nevertheless. He was lying on his back, facing the ash-grey sky above him, and bitterly realised that he was going to die without seeing the blueness of the sky one final time. Footsteps crunched close to him, and his failing eyesight caught a black-robed wizard, wand aimed at the ready. Gratefully, Draco let himself slip into unconsciousness, thankful at last that somebody would free him from the nightmare he'd been living these past three years.

He woke up sometime later feeling like he'd been kicked in the chest by an angry Hippogriff. But the large tent he was in smelled of healing herbs, and the sheets he lay in were clean. When his vision cleared, Harry Potter was sitting at his bedside, staring holes into him with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Potter." Draco wheezed. The smirk he was trying to fasten onto his face kept slipping off. Too tired and sore to be condescending, he drew in pained breaths and lay, waiting for the final curse that never came. Harry Potter stayed at his bedside for days, until Draco was well enough to remain conscious for longer than an hour or two.

"Why did you save me, you bigheaded fool?" he spat at the dark-haired young man (no longer a boy, but a man) next to his bed.

Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world and big-headed boy with a hero complex smiled at him.

"Because I know you're on our side." he replied softly, touching a finger to Draco's pale, Mark-less forearm. The blond said nothing for the rest of the day, but felt his face grow warm whenever their gazes met, which they often did.

He wanted to help the Order defeat Voldemort under any cost. He healed fast and gave the commanding wizards as much information as he could. In the secret meetings, Draco recited for them the Dark Side's battle strategies and tactics. Harry was always present at those meetings, and by his word, Draco's information was accepted without the use of Veritaserum. Draco felt Harry's eyes prickling on his neck, and knew that under that frank, trusting gaze he wouldn't have been able to lie, even if he were under Imperius.

Draco Malfoy didn't understand a lot of things that happened during his time at the Order's camp. He heard words and phrases that didn't make any sense, when words like 'Horcruxes' were whispered amongst the members. He didn't understand why the higher members of the Order came to trust him, and offered him sanctuary without a second though, when the people he'd been fighting with for years would've killed him as soon as heard from him. And most of all, he couldn't understand why meeting Harry's eyes or brushing against his arm sent sparks running through his entire body.

"I'm sorry." Draco blurted out when he'd stumbled into Harry's tent and witnessed him sitting on his bed, his fist clenched over a large iron tin, squeezing drops of blood into it. Harry lidded the container and healed his hand without a word, but the smile he gave the other young man was one that made his heart seem to jump in his ribcage.

"I have something I want to give you." Harry said, putting the can aside and rising from his seat. "Hold out your hand, and close your eyes."

Draco did so, because surely after all these weeks, if Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, had trusted him with insider information, he trust could be reciprocated. He expected the raven-haired youth to put something in his hand, perhaps a sheet of parchment or a small token. He did not expect the calloused hand to slip into his own, or the soft press of lips against his. That one moment between them was clumsy and touching. It lasted an instant, an eternity, that one awkward kiss, and it spoke silent volumes of honesty. Draco's eyes fluttered open, wide with shock, and believed that any moment his chest would explode from the flurry of emotions inside. Harry was blushing and obviously as embarrassed as he, but nevertheless he placed his hands on Draco's face and kissed his forehead. Draco let him, wordlessly, because he knew that if he opened his mouth he would say something that he would regret later.

"Tomorrow the War will be over."

That night he did not sleep, but watched Harry as he moved about in the near-dawn darkness, painting on the hill a ring the size of the Great Hall with the contents of the large tin. There had been whispers that evening of the 'final Horcrux' being destroyed, and the demise of the Dark Lord. He traced his fingers over his lips, summoning the memory once more, and wondered if Harry had ever done the same.

The morning came, and the sky was filled with ash and smoke, the sun a fiery red. Draco was fighting on the side of the Order now, and it was a strange, almost pleasant feeling to be fighting alongside people who he'd come to call friends. They watched his back, and he watched theirs. The entire morning and afternoon was thick with curses and cries, and people fell left and right. Draco did not see Harry's face once, even though he was always in the thick of things.

The Battle wore on and on. At sunset, there came a great, screaming cry that stilled every single person on the battlefield, their eyes turned towards the grassy rise on the horizon. There stood Harry, his arms raised high and wand aloft, as Voldemort knelt on the ground, hands tearing at his snake-like face. The ring of blood, Harry's blood, turned into fire, and at once the soul-shattering shriek rose again, a keen wailing that made Draco's very soul turn to ice. The ring enveloped the two, turning into a great column of fire that blazed brighter than the bloody sun sinking at the horizon. Harry's wand shattered, sending a melody at once uplifting and mournful through the air, and his eyes met Draco's from across the battleground. He smiled serenely and was lost in the roaring flames, and Draco found himself screaming for something now lost forever.

The battle was won.

The day that Harry Potter became the Man who Saved was the day that Draco lost the Man he Loved.


End file.
